Rooftop Recollections
by local hippie
Summary: The roof of the Brownstone proves to be an effective thinking space once again. This time it is Joan Watson doing the pondering. Thoughts, regrets and reflections. Hint of Sherlock/Joan relationship to be interpreted as you wish. ONESHOT


**Rooftop Recollections**

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 **Disclaimer: I do not own any rights to Robert Doherty** **'s** ** _Elementary_** **characters.**

Joan sat her tea down on the rooftop ledge to watch the city lights. The moon was full tonight and the winds seemed to be dying down. Perhaps they could have the hives outside again soon. New York was a beautiful sight at night. All lit up like the stars that seemed forever hidden by clouds overhead. Winter snow blurred the rest of the city from view tonight and there was something to be said about the way the lights seemed dimmer on a cold night, almost further away somehow.

In moments like this, the Brownstone seemed isolated from the rest of New York, and sometimes it was. Her and Sherlock were not _typical_ city goers. The lives they led and the work they shared, set them apart from the _normal_ lives others were privy to. Sometimes Joan wished their lives were little bit more regular. It had been a long time since they had eaten _out_ anywhere. Suffice it to say, it didn't taken long to learn that discussing stabbing patterns at a fancy restaurant made you unwelcome pretty damn fast.

But there were other things she missed: birthdays and anniversaries. Sherlock wasn't really into large displays of affection, a fact which suited her fine. That being said, he'd never let a single one of her birthdays pass without the discrete transfer of a small token. She had grown fond of Sherlock's gifts; always small, always wrapped in ridiculous purple foil, and always something entirely unexpected and wholly cherished. On the other hand, Sherlock was determined to keep his date of birth unacknowledged. She was aware of the date, but it remained undiscussed. Instead she resorted to other methods by which to return the favour; a platypus skull from the market, trinkets she'd found during cases or during her runs. The transfer of these gifts was never acknowledged by either party, but their mutual appreciation was easily discernible.

Still she wondered after the things she was missing: marriage, children. Sherlock was definitely childlike in many respects, but she wanted a baby with someone who wanted one too. Or did she? That part of her always seemed a little out of reach. She loved children. And her work was the obvious barrier. But somehow she knew no matter her career, children would probably never make it into the picture. She wasn't ready. But maybe… maybe she'd never be.

Other times it was clear that this was her place. There wasn't anything else she'd rather be doing. And Sherlock was home. The Brownstone was home. They fit. This fit. She'd known it when she agreed to stay on after her contract as his sober companion had expired. She knew it now as well. She had attempted to do both. To have her own place and maintain a working partnership with Sherlock. She'd bought wall art and decorative sofa cushions in an effort to convince herself that this was right, her own space. But it had always been a facade, painting a picture she wanted to believe. Cases had brought her back to the Brownstone and soon it became unavoidable. The Brownstone was home. She was sure of it the moment she arrived with her things. She'd moved back in the same night.

"Watson?" his voice sounded softly behind her. Funny, she hadn't heard him approach. Sherlock came to stand by her side and squinted up at the sky. His stance was relaxed, though his back was straight and his arms were crossed tightly across his chest, fingers constantly tapping out rhythms on his forearms.

She was happy. Working cases, solving puzzles and learning — always learning. She felt lucky to have fallen into Sherlock's orbit. Those words were just as true now as they had been years ago. Their partnership had extended beyond their collaborative work efforts. They cared for each other, understood each other in ways others never could. They shared a mutual trust and confidence. And with the partnership came his unwavering protectiveness. Not that she needed it. But he was there to support her. That fact alone was enough.

He had helped her in so many ways. She was a detective. And she was also an ex-surgeon. People tended to see her career changes as part of a downward trajectory. But her past experiences had led her to where she was now, had made her a great detective. Sherlock had made her realize that. She didn't know what the future held for them. And for the first time, she was okay with it.

"You're smiling, Watson. Why?" his tone was light as he turned his head slightly towards her. Their shoulders were inches apart and she took the opportunity to elbow him in the arm lightly as if to say, _'because of you.'_

Sherlock feigned a painful reaction to her childish blow, grasping his "wounded" arm. She laughed softly and their eyes met. He nodded slowly. His upper lip twisting into a sideways smile that lasted only a moment as he looked back towards the sky.

He understood.


End file.
